


We Don’t Need to Be Friends

by Miss_M



Category: Stoker (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark, F/M, First Time, Loss of Virginity, Masturbation, Rough Sex, Uncle/Niece Incest, mention of harm to animals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-06 16:05:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11604075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_M/pseuds/Miss_M
Summary: The best part about making a mess, India had learned that night, was that she could enjoy making it, then washing herself clean of it, and planning the next mess she’d make.





	We Don’t Need to Be Friends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



> This is a treat. I own nothing.

The first time India experienced something she was able to identify positively as arousal, she was thirteen and had seen the neighbor’s dog get hit by a car. 

She’d got close and seen the pooled, glistening blood on the tarmac, the skid marks, the broken animal lying on its side, drawing its last, liquid breaths, but that wasn’t what had made India rush back into her house. ( _Her mother had thought she was upset._ ) The evidence of the animal’s death was not what had compelled India to run upstairs to her room, shut the door, and sit on her bed, squeezing her thighs together, feet crossed at the ankles; then lie back, squeezing; finally roll onto her stomach, press her face to the top sheet, and push her hand up between her legs, over her skirt and panties, pressing and pushing rhythmically till she was gasping at the intensity and the frustration that it didn’t feel even more intense. 

The blood hadn’t done that, nor had the dying dog alone had that effect on India – rather, witnessing the moment of collision, the sight and squeal of tires and crunch of impact. The suddenness of it. The violent randomness and the finality. 

As India grew up, she would often masturbate – once she figured out how to pull that trigger properly – after hunting trips. The homemade taxidermy her father displayed proudly around the house stood on bookshelves and mantelpieces as feathered, furry, glass-eyed monuments to India’s orgasms. 

The night she watched Uncle Charlie kiss her mother and strangle Whip Taylor with her father’s belt, India stepped out of the shower, still swelling pleasantly and a little unsteady on her feet from her recent rush of pleasure, bypassed the pile of ruined clothes on the towel on the floor as well as the other clean towel on its rack, and walked to her adjoining bedroom. She wasn’t sure what she intended to do, why she hadn’t dried herself, as though afraid that rubbing her body with the soft cotton would rub off the night’s surreal quality. She gulped air, still a little breathless from her shower, and reached for the doorknob on the bathroom side of the door.

He hadn’t called to her from her room, or she hadn’t heard him. She was sure of that – it wasn’t his voice which drew her on, not even as she’d thought she’d heard Uncle Charlie call her name at the funeral, at the cemetery, outlined against the sunny sky like a figure glimpsed at the heart of a fire. 

Charlie stood in India’s room, beside her neat bed, still in the green sweater and khakis ( _muddy hems_ ) he’d worn in the kitchen and the woods, though India noticed he’d taken off his shoes – all the better not to rouse Mother from her alcoholic stupor, in her room at the other end of the upstairs landing?

India looked up from Charlie’s bare feet on her clean floor, up his long body with its relaxed, upright stance, his hands in his pockets, to his face. His eyes were riveted to her body. Water dripped down her back from her hair, down her limbs and fingers, down her thighs from her pubic hair. The air in the room wasn’t cold, but she could feel her nipples becoming hard, the hairs on her arms and thighs standing up. 

Charlie’s eyes returned to her face. He took his hands out of his pockets. 

“India.” 

His tone was soft, kind, avid with interest, as it always was when he spoke to her.

India took a deep breath, reached up with both hands, gathered her hair into a ponytail, and squeezed excess water out of it, onto her bedroom floor, bending a little sideways so as not to spill it over herself. She watched Charlie follow the smooth arc she knew her hip and ribcage made as she leaned over, the skin stretched over her ribs, her toes digging into the floorboards. Her toes had curled in the shower and on the piano stool, when Charlie had wrapped his body around hers in order to play. She exhaled slowly, and the water made a sound like a little boy pissing on her floor. It made no sound when India gathered her pubic hair in her fist and squeezed that too, her eyes on Charlie’s eyes, only a few water droplets slipping down her inner thighs. 

His fingers curled by his sides. 

The puddle on the floor was colorless, odorless, but still it constituted a mess in India’s immaculate room. The best part about making a mess, she had learned that night, was that she could enjoy making it, then washing herself clean of it, and planning the next mess she’d make. 

This time, she didn’t have to ask what Charlie wanted. She didn’t have to parse if it was in conflict with her own lifelong longing. India hadn’t really had a say in Charlie staying in the house with her and Mother, though he’d claimed she did, but she had a say in this. 

Hers was the only say in this.

India walked past her uncle and climbed up onto her bed, feeling the taut sheets absorb the moisture on her skin at once, the duvet get soaked through. She lay face down, arms bent at her sides, hands framing her head, palms down on the mattress. Her hair stuck to her back, and her lower legs and feet hung off the side of the bed. 

Charlie’s breath shook audibly as he watched her arrange herself, as he came closer and put his hand on the back of her calf. India didn’t flinch from his touch. He was the only one she’d allow this liberty with her person. If she turned and put her arms around him, she knew he wouldn’t flinch from her either. 

She closed her eyes. She wanted to feel everything, hear everything, not be distracted by the sight of the ruches on her bedsheet or the corner of the doorframe. 

As Charlie ran his hand up her leg, past the knee, up and between her thighs, she wondered if he’d washed his hands after burying Whip. His hands _felt_ clean. 

His finger entered her smoothly, and she caught her breath. Not her finger. Different. 

“Did you enjoy your shower?” Charlie asked pleasantly, behind and above her, like he was discussing the weather with Mother, moving his finger. “You’re all swollen up.”

India felt her heart beating in her throat, her lungs expanding with her breath, she could almost hear her pulse speed up steadily, like the car engine accelerating as she and her father drove out of town, from 25 miles an hour to 35, 45, 60. 

She shifted a bit, so she could part her legs farther, lift her hips and ass just a bit. Uncle Charlie’s finger pushed into her faster. He touched her clit too, rubbed it, almost delicately, like he was stroking a kitten’s head with his forefinger. India didn’t have to tell him to do it. His breath sounded more labored than hers already. 

“India.” Not a question or a request – an overwhelming need to say her name.

“Yes,” she said, moving her hips minutely to keep pace with his fingers. “Yes.” Not permission or a wish granted – a need, a want, something long delayed and finally within reach. 

He hadn’t put on the borrowed ( _stolen_ ) belt after killing Whip with it, so India heard only the whisper of button against cloth, the zipper opening, the rustle of clothes pushed down hips. No fear, not even after how the night had begun – not with Charlie, not in her bedroom. 

Unmoving, she waited impatiently for his hands to return to her. She felt his wrist brush against her as he stroked himself ( _the mulchy sound of his wet skin, that idiot Chris would’ve loved that:_ Stroker _indeed_ ). The khakis grazed her wet skin as Charlie stepped closer, between her legs, parting them wide with his body. 

Despite herself, India tensed up then. But she was a hunter. She knew how to wait, how to prepare. She had waited so long, and now she was ready. She inhaled and exhaled, imagined the air leave her body, from her shoulders, down her torso, her pelvis, her legs, her toes. 

When Charlie wrapped one arm around her waist and lifted her into position, and pushed his cock into her with his other hand, he was bigger than her fingers, which India had expected, and it didn’t hurt, which she really hadn’t. She’d expected at least some pain, better yet: a searing, a tearing. Blood, moisture, sweat on her upper lip.

Charlie made a sound once he was fully pressed into her, his sweater scratching her lower back, his arm trembling around her waist. Like he wanted to say something, perhaps her name again, but couldn’t get it out. Surely he should feel that way at the end, not at the beginning? India guessed, as he began to move, their bodies making wet, slapping, sucking sounds, that this too was different, even for him, who was so much like her. She couldn’t even get one of her hands under her, for Uncle Charlie’s weight pinned her to her bed, she did not want this to be so… mundane. So ordinary, even if Charlie was panting and moaning behind her like a man long-imprisoned and seeing his first sunrise in years.

“Stop,” India said. “Stop!”

A moment like breaking china, then Charlie stilled, in mid-stroke, his cock half inside her. He did not make a sound. India resolutely did not imagine what his face must look like. This was not a betrayal, though he didn’t know it yet. 

India opened her eyes. Sheet, wall, door: Charlie was just a shadow at the edge of her vision. “Give me your hand.”

Even his hand seemed confused when he leaned forward, over her, laying his hand next to hers on the mattress. India took it, bigger than hers, strong, and reached back awkwardly with both their hands. Their fingers brushed against her side, her hip, her lower back. Charlie shifted his weight off her, her skin tingling where his sweater had rubbed it, till at last India could drag his fingers across her buttock and press two of his fingers to her ass, press them hard against that hole. 

Often, when she got herself off just so, when she managed to net herself an especially powerful orgasm, India’s asshole would ache dully afterward: the rush of blood, the contracting muscles, and the fired-up nerve endings working together to heighten her pleasure. Sometimes she’d bend herself into a fetal position, so she could work her finger into her ass while she rubbed her clit. 

“Here. Like this,” she said, holding Charlie’s hand in place, and closed her eyes again. Now it would be alright between them. 

She heard Charlie swallow, heard his heart canter madly, his breath come rapidly, heard his sweat glands work overtime and his hands shake and the blood rush with renewed vigor into his cock as he pulled it out of her, lifted his weight off her entirely, and knelt on the bed behind her. India wriggled backward till she was in a sort of quarter-crouch, her pelvis offered up, her legs and buttocks spread, her weight on her left elbow, and her right hand free. 

He hadn’t felt too big when he’d been inside her, swollen and wet and ready as she’d been, but when Charlie rubbed his moist cockhead against her now ( _she could feel his eyes on her ass_ ), he did seem entirely too big. India breathed and relaxed again. She was a hunter. She did not make mistakes. 

This time, she felt it: the pain, the burn, the searing drag as Charlie breached her and pushed, as he worked his cock into her, forcing her whole body to move jerkily back and forth on her bed. She felt so _tight_ , she could almost feel how it must have felt for him. India gasped, her eyes not just shut but squeezed shut, and gripped a handful of bed sheets. Her panting was high-pitched and full of need, _ride it out ride it out_ , till she felt Charlie’s balls against her swollen nether lips, and his pubic hair tickling her ass. 

“Oh India. India,” Charlie said.

The words rolled in his throat, a man saved from drowning. In her mind’s eye, India could see him, head thrown back, throat exposed and vulnerable ( _lamb to the knife_ ), eyes shut as he heard and felt everything, his arms trembling as he gripped her sides, both his hands and her hips and thighs slick with sweat. 

She felt something, like a large insect, land on her hair, and nearly shook it off till she realized Charlie was only gripping one of her hips. She let him thread his fingers through her hair, not quite touching her scalp, his hand so gentle as he started to move, impaling her ass again and again ( _slick burn and tight and pleasure rising inside her_ ), and she released the bedsheets from her fist, pushed her right hand under her, and fell to rubbing her slit. Her muscles contracted wetly, she imagined a mouth opening and closing. She wished ( _in her mind’s eye, she saw, she felt_ ) that she could have Charlie in both holes at once, and in her mouth, stretching her lips, his hands cupping her face, twisting her hair, holding her steady as he ravaged her. 

India let her left arm collapse under her and laid her head on the mattress. She put her left index and middle fingers in her mouth and pushed them in and out, in rhythm with Charlie’s hips and hers, rubbing her clit desperately, like a nettle sting. In and out, she sucked her fingers, down to the first knuckle. 

Charlie let go of her hair and touched her wrist. “Here.”

With a sigh and a _plop_ , she let him pull her hand away and offer her his finger to suck, thicker knuckles, in and out and in, longer than her fingers, almost choking her, but she was squeezing between her legs, roiling and cresting and being raised up. She sucked greedily as her whole body shook and thrust back and forth across the rumpled sheets, and she could only whine through her nose for she couldn’t moan properly around Charlie’s finger. Her orgasm in the shower seemed like a pressed flower compared to a summer garden as she rose and crested, trembled at the summit, tossed and torn apart, and came down, down, down, back into her body, covered by Charlie’s, stretched on her ruined bed. 

She was still twitching, like a wounded deer, still rubbing her clit, breathless in the aftershocks, when Charlie came.

He said her name one last time, sounding anguished and out of breath, trembling over and behind her. He pulled his finger out of her mouth abruptly, his fist struck the mattress by India’s head. He groaned like he was being stabbed, and though she had expected it, and had even imagined what it might feel like to have a man come inside her, India was still a little startled by the small burst of liquid inside her ass and the drop of Charlie’s sweat that fell on her shoulder. His whole body seemed to push into her, shoving her inelegantly across her bed, and again, till he drew a ragged breath and relaxed, holding himself partway up by his elbows planted on either side of India, her right hand going numb under their combined weight. 

When Uncle Charlie got up, off her, off the bed, the box spring creaking after its recent exertions, India was thinking about asking Mother for a vanity table. A mirror facing her bed, so that next time she might watch Charlie’s face behind her. She might keep her eyes open if she knelt for him, if she lay on her back for him. She realized she hadn’t thought of Whip once, the bulging eyes, the skin dark with blood, the Adam’s apple, the final crunch of neck breaking. Just Charlie’s eyes, as they had shone behind Whip, as they must have shone when India had opened to him.

“What was it you said?” she asked, unmoving on the bed. “Too young and tannic, not ready to be open?” 

Charlie laughed, still out of breath, and appeared in India’s line of sight. His khakis were zipped up, but the top button remained undone. India imagined herself sucking him, fighting for breath, his fingers in her hair, but she did not wish to move. 

Charlie knelt on the bed and caressed India’s hair, bending over her. “Oh India. I waited so long for you. I knew you would be worth… everything.”

India looked up at him and he looked down at her, neither moving, and it felt somehow better than if he’d simply kissed her. 

At the other end of the landing, Mother’s door creaked open. “Charlie? India? Charlie!” 

Charlie smiled and rolled his eyes as in fond jest. “I’d better go soothe her, or she’ll come here and see you all ready for bed.”

“She must want her hair brushed,” India said. 

Charlie grinned, passed his hand one more time from the crown of India’s head to the ends of her tresses, let his fingers linger a moment in the middle of her bare back, then he was up and out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. 

India lay unmoving, her whole body feeling bruised and wonderful, loose yet focused and filled to the brim. She felt how she imagined a pudding that had been dropped on the floor might feel. She squeezed her buttocks experimentally and felt some lingering pain, also a thick stickiness that was probably blood soaking into the sheets between her legs. Her back was rubbed dry by Charlie’s clothes, but the skin between her breasts and on her face sported a fine sheen of sweat. 

She would have to get up eventually, clean herself again, bundle yet more things with the dirty clothes on the bathroom floor. Eventually. 

India closed her eyes and concentrated on her body, motionless yet whirring with possibility. Tomorrow she might have Charlie put his tongue everywhere he’d just been inside her. She might kiss him for an hour on the piano stool, only their mouths touching, holding his hand pinned down in her grip if he tried to put it under her skirt. She might press her hand hard against his windpipe as she came, crying out her pleasure as loudly as she did when no one could hear her. 

She might, she might, she might everything.


End file.
